


Doctor Who and the Sporran of Doom

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Sporrans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jamie is attacked by his own sporran, our heroes must somehow save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Who and the Sporran of Doom

The Doctor and Zoe sat eating cheese sandwiches in a base that was, surprisingly, not under siege. There were no Cybermen, no Ice Warriors, and not even a single Yeti to distract from the delicious cheese sandwiches.

It was the most boring day the Doctor could remember since a week last Thursday.

He looked round in case something had invaded the base since they had started eating the sandwiches. Alas no, not even a Cybermat.

“Zoe,” said the Doctor, “I think there's something wrong.”

“What do you mean?” asked Zoe, picking a bit of tomato from her sandwich.

“Nothing's going horribly wrong, and that isn't right.” He took the bit of tomato from her hand and popped it into his mouth. “You should eat your vegetables,” he mumbled as he chewed.

“Tomatoes are a fruit,” said Zoe.

“The most unconvincing fruit,” said the Doctor. “But that's no reason not to eat them.”

It was at this point that Jamie returned from the space bathroom, which was like an ordinary bathroom but in space. He stood manfully in the doorway in an anorak and a kilt.

“Doctor!” cried Jamie, “My sporran's moving!”

The Doctor wrung his own hands, flustered. “We can talk about that later Jamie, with Zoe not in the room.”

“It's come to life!”

The Doctor looked down at the lower regions of Jamie. Indeed, the sporran was dancing about on its own, trying to attack its wearer.

“Oh my ever-giddy aunt!” cried the Doctor.

“Take it off!” cried Zoe, distressed by something so illogical.

“Ah cannae!” exclaimed Jamie, becoming increasingly Scottish as panic took hold of him.

The Doctor ran across the room, took a deep breath, and grabbed the sporran as it jiggled about. It was difficult to keep a hold of it, so animated was the accessory. “It's too strong!”

Zoe grabbed the Doctor round the waist to help him pull the sporran away from Jamie. Their combined weight was sufficient to break the sporran's grip and they flew backwards as it gave up its hold on Jamie. Jamie fell to the floor, gasping.

Zoe let go of the Doctor as he bravely fought the sporran in his hands. He tried to squeeze the life from it but it was possessed with greater strength than the petite Time Lord could muster. Soon he was struggling to keep it from his throat.

Jamie pulled himself up and threw himself onto the Doctor, grappling with the attacking sporran. Between them they managed to fight it off and throw it to the floor, where Zoe began to beat it savagely with a handy metal bar.

“Die!” Zoe cried. “Die, you horrible creature!”

The Doctor put a hand on Zoe's shoulder, rubbing his neck as he did so. “I should think it's finished, Zoe.”

“You can never tell!” Zoe exclaimed, but she ceased her violent attack anyway.

The three friends gathered round and looked at the sad remains of the sporran. It twitched occasionally.

The Doctor poked at it with a spoon he had produced from a pocket. “Jamie, are you quite certain that this is your sporran? It's not a replica with some useful betraying detail?”

“Aye, it's mine all right.”

“What's a sporran for anyway?” asked Zoe.

“It's a sort of handbag,” said the Doctor.

“It's not!” Jamie protested. “It's a lot more manly than that.”

“Jamie,” said the Doctor reasonably, “for a man in a skirt you're awfully gender-conformist.” He picked up the now-lifeless sporran and handed it to the irritated Scotsman. “We'll have to analyse it when we get back to the TARDIS.”

Jamie looked at the sporran with great suspicion. “It might have been the English, trying to destroy the seed of Scotland's manhood.”

The Doctor stared at him. “I shouldn't think so. It's much more likely to be some terrible alien menace.”

“Aye, well, what do you call the English then? No offence, Zoe.”

“None taken,” said Zoe, generously.

“Jamie,” said the Doctor, “I don't think the English would make your sporran come to life and attack you. I expect they'd use bagpipes as their method of attack. Dreadful things, bagpipes.”

“Aye,” said Jamie, “that they are.” He'd been a piper, but he hadn't much liked it.

“I love Scotland,” said the Doctor hastily. “I just don't much like bagpipes. They sound too much like singing Daleks.”

“I think it was the Cybermen,” said Zoe, who knew a recurring enemy when she saw one.

And so they headed back to the TARDIS to do some science.

 

The Doctor took off his safety goggles and looked at what was left of the sporran. “Well, I think we've established that acid melts whatever this is.”

“And that fire burns it,” said Zoe, who was taking notes.

Jamie was merely observing, having been declared not scientific enough for the experiments. “I don't think you two really know what you're doing.”

“Oh, I never know what I'm doing,” said the Doctor, “I just muddle through on optimism.” He wiped his hands on his handkerchief. “This is a real mystery.”

“Maybe it was just a bad sporran,” Zoe suggested. “A simple wardrobe malfunction.”

“Jamie,” said the Doctor, “where did you get this sporran?”

“I bought it on yon internet thing,” said Jamie. “I used that wee plastic card you gave me.”

“Do you remember where on the internet?”

Jamie nodded. “It was called nonevilsporrans.com.”

“What a dreadfully suspicious URL,” said the Doctor.

Zoe, always one step ahead, opened the laptop that sat on a nearby bench. She covered her ears as it connected to the internet. “Really, Doctor,” she said, “you need to get a better connection. Dial-up just isn't good enough.”

“I don't want to get addicted to online gaming,” said the Doctor, leaning over her shoulder as she typed in the address. “Oh my,” he said when the site had eventually loaded, “this is like something from 1998.”

A midi version of _Flower of Scotland_ started to play as Zoe read the words on the screen. “We sell sporrans which are guaranteed not to be evil. We are not a front for an invasion force, just a friendly company who care deeply about sporrans and other kilt-related paraphernalia.”

“Really, Jamie,” said the Doctor, “you didn't think any of this was odd?”

“Free postage and packaging,” said Jamie defensively.

Zoe flexed her fingers. “Get the megabyte modem ready, I'm going to hack into the server.”

“Or we could just do a whois,” said the Doctor. He turned the laptop and started to type slowly. “Where's the H?”

Zoe took the laptop back with a sigh and looked up the information at a more speedy speed. The Doctor took a note of the address and hurried off to the console room.

 

The TARDIS landed in an industrial estate in south Wales. The Doctor, Jamie, and Zoe emerged from the blue box and headed to an innocent-looking warehouse by the side of the road.

“We'll have to break in,” said the Doctor, searching his pockets.

“It's not locked,” said Zoe.

“Oh.”

Jamie opened the door and peered into the building. “My God,” he cried, “it's full of sporrans!”

Indeed it was. Sporrans were piled carelessly all over the floor of the warehouse, no effort having been taken to sort them into the accepted sporran categories. More interesting were the small blue furry creatures who ran about in between the piles.

“A-ha!” cried the Doctor, bouncing into the warehouse, “We've caught you!”

The creatures threw up their tiny hands in the universally-accepted gesture of surrender.

“Picts!” the Doctor exclaimed. “I should have guessed!”

Zoe frowned. “Those are Picts? I thought Picts were just people with strange haircuts?”

“That's what they want you to think,” said the Doctor.

One of the Picts stepped forward. “Curse you, intruders! You interrupt our plans to reclaim Scotland!” It spat on the floor. “That land is ours! We were there first!”

“I'm sure we can come to some agreement,” said the Doctor, trying to be reasonable. “We could get Holyrood to accept you as a minority group.”

The Pict started to cry. “All we ever wanted was to live in peace. And for people to believe in us. And to have ponies.”

“We'll help you,” said the Doctor, “though the ponies might have to wait a while.”

 

And that, then, is how Scotland came to be shared between the Scots and the Picts. Now onto our next exhibit, which details the Dalek invasion of Glasgow and how it was led to the invention of the fried Mars Bar, the significance of which has been forgotten by the general population...


End file.
